


i think it was italy

by toplinson (crybaby)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 90's AU, Anal Sex, Bad French, Bad Italian, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crybaby/pseuds/toplinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>He’s been in Sicily three years when he meets him, pulled in by the soft gold skin and French accent and everything so painfully <em>Harry</em><br/>(Set in Sicily in the nineties)</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	i think it was italy

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone or anything.**

He meets him in Sicily.

He’s been living there for a little over three years. He moved when he was nineteen, packing a bag and running from home to the airport and using all his birthday money from over the past two years to buy himself a ticket.

He’d stared at outgoing flights, torn between Munich and Vienna or maybe Palermo. He’d then chosen Sicily because he could never remember if it was in France of Italy, let alone in fact Palermo.

He got a ticket for coach and sat tucked in his chair, a sleeping middle aged man next to him, and stared out his window, watching as the only thing visible became streetlights that mapped out roads in the night, the whole of the town gone black from the evening.

He has hardly any money in his pockets and he needs it all changed to a different currency but he doesn’t care because it’s loud and people are speaking in jumbles he can’t understand and something feels right in his chest.

He rents a flat that’s small and he knows he’s going to need at least two jobs to cover the low rent. The only thing that matters is that there’s a bed, or more a mattress, and a shower and a stove and a small couch.

There’s a leak in the ceiling that drips water when it rains and the lights in the kitchen flicker and make the room the most disgusting yellow colour and the geyser is small and his showers are freezing and the pipes are filled with air-gaps so the water stops and spits and the taps groan when he shaves or brushes his teeth, but he sort of likes it.

He gets a job at a second-hand bookstore that sells Italian books and he can barely arrange them, having to ask Arlo for help, and he’ll put it in a section he would have never guessed and mutter half-arsed insults under his breath.

He likes Arlo, he can be quite intimidating and seems to think that his thin jaw and lean frame makes him superior, even if he’s right. But mostly he’s a sweet man that pages through fashion magazines and sips out of cream-coloured china mugs and sits behind the till. He’s tried to set Louis up with cousins of his and cousins of his friends and cousins of his cousins’ cousins.

Louis laughs off his attempts because even though he’ll deny it his grave, he is hopelessly romantic and he thinks when he looks into the eyes of his Prince, he’ll know.

Arlo rolls his eyes, talking on his handheld with a quick tongue before slapping Louis’ arse so that he’ll leave and he can lock up.

And then he gets his second job at a restaurant four blocks from his flat that keeps him awake.

He helps cook because he can’t take orders and it keeps him up and it makes him feel alive, different spices tickling his memory senses as Rocco sings in that loud voice of his and has Louis licks a spoon to test that the sauce tastes right and Lanzo whistles and sneaks his dog in from the back because he thinks that Sal doesn’t and will never know.

Louis mostly cooks and bakes the sweet things, adding too much vanilla and too much cream and  too much butter and Lanzo licks his spoons and gives his bowls to his dog so he has pink frosting on the fur of his chin before being scooted out the door or under the table when Sal comes down from upstairs, glasses on his nose and sweat stains under his arms.

Sal swears in Italian with words Louis thinks he knows the meaning to and knows he wouldn’t find in a dictionary but Sal ignores the obvious tail sticking out from under the table cloth before the creak of wooden floors map out his movement up the stairs and back into his office before Rocco is turning the radio back up and singing out the words to old classics Louis can imagine his grandfather listening to with his pipe in his mouth and his chair creaking as he bumps his leg.

After three years he can almost speak Italian and the leak in his ceiling is fixed and there’s a new couple in the flat next to his that have loud sex every night and nothing’s really changed.

There’s someone new at the restaurant, Gavino, who he may or may not have had a crush on for the first month or two and Arlo got a modelling job for watches and different wine and Rocco coughs from the smoking but refuses to stop and there’s a new girl at the front named Chiara with tanned skin and blonde hair who flirts shamelessly with him but has a boyfriend in another city.

He can see himself living out the rest of his life like that, making just enough to pay rent and feed himself and to buy a postcard with some joke about pizza or pasta to send back home to his mum and his sisters.

And life would be fine.

 

* * *

 

Then he sees him.

He’s in the market on a Friday afternoon between his time at the bookshop and the restaurant, having left the bookshop at lunch due to his craving for Panini.

So he walks the sixteen minutes to get to the market, the shouts of different merchants ringing through the air. There’s children running around his ankles and he gets this moment because this is why he came to Sicily.

For the loud and the bright and the people who shout and the people with golden skin and the people with warm eyes.

He’s quite glad Sicily didn’t turn out to be in France because he knows they wouldn’t be as kind to him with his English accent and wardrobe that someone once compared to a mime.

He sees a girl he knows at a stall, Adrina, and she hands him what he calls pain au chocolat and what she calls pane al cioccolato.

It cures his craving and he thanks her with a kiss on the cheek and strolls through the stalls, breaking off bits of pastry with his fingers and placing them on his tongue.

It smells like grease where he stands and he looks over his shoulder at the loud cry of _bambino!_

There’s a woman with long black hair and bronze skin and she throws her arms around the neck of a boy. She catches him looking over the man’s shoulder and smiles.

He smiles back as his eyes scope down the man’s back. He has broad shoulders and he looks taller than himself. He’s in a white tee shirt and Louis can see the way it sticks to his skin. He’s also got denim dungarees on, one strap on and the other hanging around his waist and he gets over the fact that he’s wearing dungarees because from what he can see, he looks adorable.

He realises he’s been staring for too long when the woman looks back over. He’s turning because he’s so embarrassed but then the boy turns around and it’s terribly cliché, but his breath runs short.

His skin is a light golden and his hair is dark and messy looking. But what gets him most are the eyes, big green eyes that take up most of the man’s face. He can see how green they are from where he stands, sees them focus on him and the pinkest, most fullest lips he’s ever laid eyes on crack into a smile.

The man raises a single hand and waves once and Louis still can’t move back and carries on walking, even though he knows he has to be back at work soon.

He finds his legs moving forward by their own accord and his eyes are still fixed with the bright green that now look surprised and almost bashful.

And then he’s standing in front of a beautiful man who stands inches taller than him with slumped shoulders and a shy smile.

He isn’t generally this forward and the woman looks quite confused but smiles.

“Piacere.” She says and Louis looks over to her.

“Buon pomeriggio.” Louis replies, looking back to the man who’s now shuffling on his feet.

“Posso aiutarvi?” She asks, going to stand under the tarp of her stall.

“Um, sì.” He stands by her table of scarves.

She smiles cheerily and gestures to her table of scarves and he drags his fingers over the silks and cashmeres and he takes a scarf that’s green like the grass and trees of the area of park he used to play in when he was younger.

He winds it around his wrist, dragging it over his skin and feeling the softness. He gives her two notes, placing them in her palm and taking the scarf.

When he turns, the man is still behind him, smiling politely.

Louis unwinds the scarf from his wrist and passes it to the man. He looks down at the fabric being held out to him, one hand rising to let it be draped over his palm.

“Mi scusi, uh, potrei avere vostro numero di telefono?” He thinks his phrasing is wrong but the man smiles.

“Je suis désolée, je ne parle pas beaucoup plus italien.”

He’s French. His voice is deep and gravelly and scratches over words to sound distant and sparked like a vinyl.

“Uh, do you speak any English.”

“Oui, I speak some.”

“Okay. Could I please have your landline?”

The man’s eyes seem to light up and he smiles.

“Uh, pen?”

Louis nods, pulling his satchel to his front and undoing the buckles to dig through the different receipts and keys and sunglasses before he finds a pen he hopes works.

The man takes it with a smile, reaching for his hand. He flips his hand over, pen-tip pressed into the dryness of his palm.

He scrawls out a number, pen losing ink in some spaces, and he signs _m’appeler, Harry_ underneath.

“Merci.”  Louis says, taking back his pen. “I’ll call you.”

He turns to leave but is stopped by a cry of “Monsieur, your scarf.”

Louis turns to meet the gaze of the green eyes and he thinks he may actually be in love.

“It’s for you.”

The man’s eyes widen and he looks down at the offending object before looking back up.

Louis had been aiming for the same colour as his eyes but as soon as he’s looking back into them, the scarf doesn’t even come close to the beautiful mint.

The man, or Harry as his palm tells him, looks a bit lost before he smiles.

“Please call…” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for a name.

“Louis.”

“Louis.”

He repeats, rolling it off his tongue and god, he makes his name sound so _French_ and so _beautiful_. Louis nods and waves before turning and starting to walk to the restaurant.

 

* * *

 

And then he does call.

He calls on his break while Chiara and Rocco sneak out to the back and leave Lanzo and Gavino to look after the restaurant.

Rocco smokes with Chiara, sitting on the dusty ground with their backs to the brick wall. Louis takes the remainder of Chiara’s cigarette, leaving her to light another, and pulls out his handheld.

His handheld is too big and too blocky but it’s just come out and is much smaller than Arlo’s giant brick.

He unfolds his palm, reading the numbers that have started to fade from his skin with the light coming through the glass of the door.

It rings four times before it clicks and a husky voice breathes into the receiver.

“Allô?”

“Hi, this is Louis. We met at the market.”

“Oh, hello!”

Louis can hear the smile through the crackling line, holding his phone closer to his cheek with both hands.

“So I was wondering if you wanted to do something this weekend?”

“Like a…date?” Harry asks and Louis can’t stop grinning at how adorable he sounds.

“Oui.” He says easily, trying to humour him and lowering his voice so the others don’t hear.

“I’d love to.”

 

* * *

 

And then they have their first date.

It’s the next day because Louis can’t stop thinking about the French boy with toffee skin and peppermint eyes and taffy lips and chocolate curls.

He fetches Harry on his Vespa.

Harry looks positively delectable when he runs from his building and onto the street, shirt buttoned to the neck and rolled up to the elbow.

Harry stares at him with something akin to awe in his eyes and Louis blushes, sitting him on the back and lifting the helmet to his head. His curls spring out from under as he tightens it under his chin.

He takes him to a restaurant three blocks over from his flat where one of Arlo’s cousins works. It’s loud and a mess and Harry grins as they’re lead to their table.

They both get pasta and Louis almost forgets to eat, just wanting to watch him. They order a bottle of red wine, sipping slowly while he learns more about Harry. He was born and raised in Colmar by his mother. His father was a sailor and he has a younger brother and a step-father. He moved to Sicily eight months prior and is studying to be a history teacher, working as an assistant to a fashion photographer to support himself.

Harry’s cute in the way he blushes with each compliment Louis whispers or how he sits and bites his finger when he can’t remember the English word for something. Sometimes bits of French slip in and Louis smiles at him.

Louis orders them each gelato, Harry’s strawberry and his mango.

It’s almost silent and the room is dim and Harry is lit up from the candle that drips wax on the tablecloth and Harry looks up, lips gone red.

“Tu es magnifique.”

Louis blushes, looking down to his bowl.

“Sei bello troppo.”

Harry’s cheeks go bright red and he looks to his lap. He looks up, right into Louis’ eyes before turning in his chair.

He leans forward and plants a feather-light kiss on his lips.

His lips are cold and leave a strawberry gloss over his, but they press soft and pliant.

It’s short and it’s sweet and it makes him hungry for more and he wants to press him back into the table and kiss him until he’s raw and begging but Harry pulls away with a blush and his hand finds Louis’ on the table.

Louis pays, even though Harry slaps his hand and reaches for his wallet, but Louis’ card is on the table before Harry’s and Harry pouts until Louis passes him a purple mint from the cheque.

Harry clings to his waist as he drives him home, letting Louis’ take off the helmet and kiss his forehead when they stop in front of his building.

Louis walks him to his door, holding his hand and brushing the fringe from Harry’s eyes. Harry leans in and kisses his cheek, soft lips warm.

“I had a lovely time, thank you Louis.” Harry has this thing where he makes Louis’ name sound so pretty and so very French and he loves just how Harry says it.

Harry unlocks his door and smiles a sweet smile, about to step inside the flat block when Louis pulls him back with an arm around his waist and kisses him.

It’s lazy and slow and Harry’s lips are soft and feel like lines of marshmallow and Louis holds him with a hand in his hair and a hand on his hip while Harry’s arms snake around his shoulders and kiss him back.

He wants to make it deeper and press him to the door and kiss him numb and wide-eyed but he pulls back and Harry looks dazed already with spit-line going from lips to chin.

“D’accord.” Harry says under his breath, wiping his lips before he gives Louis a soft peck.

“Goodnight.” Louis says, fingers gripping onto Harry’s.

“Call me again?” Harry replies, fingers slipping from Louis’ grasp.

“Of course.” Harry pulls his hand away and backs through his door.

He stands by the side, kicking his boot over the ground and grins at Louis.

“Bonsoir.” Harry says softly.

“Buonanotte.” Louis says even softer.

Harry closes the door and Louis can see him move away through the frosted glass before climbing back on his scooter and trying to get the smile off his face.

 

* * *

 

Harry comes to his flat on their fourth date.

Louis cooks him dinner and lights candles and plays Barry White and Harry gives him soft kisses as he cooks.

The gas from the stove makes the flat smell stale and he opens the windows, letting in cool night air. Harry lights candles and places them everywhere so he can turn all the lights off.

Harry sits on his counter and watches him cook, face lit beautifully from the little light they are getting.

Harry smokes out his kitchen window, leaning back in to give Louis a drag every so often.

The flat smells like wine and basil by the time Louis’ done and Louis sets their plates down on the coffee table and passes Harry a pillow to sit on the floor.

Harry has this giggle that comes out after about three glasses of vino and Louis’ given him about five. Harry is breezy and light and he chews with a smile and compliments him as often as he breathes and as soon as they’re done, he takes their plates to the sink while Louis follows and wraps his arms around his waist and kisses his neck.

He giggles at the touch, squirming in his arms. Louis made them dessert at the restaurant.

He takes it from the Styrofoam box from the fridge, transferring the panna cotta onto a plate and getting two spoons from the drawer.

Harry scoots next to him, sitting on the wood of his floor and leaning into his side as Louis passes him a spoon.

It ends with Harry mostly feeding Louis and Louis mostly feeding Harry. By the time the plate is clear, Louis has Harry scooted back with his back pressed to his couch. His bum rests on Louis’ knees and his legs go out awkwardly at his sides, thighs grazing Louis’ hips.

He sits up to kiss Louis before Louis leans him back so his head rests on the couch cushion. Louis sucks on his neck, nips until his skin is red and there’s the beginning of a bruise.

Harry hums, eyes closed and chest rising and falling a little quicker than normal as Louis’ fingers dance up his sides and wish to get under the flimsy layer of fabric.

He thinks it may be the night he gets to touch and feel and taste and have but Harry pants and pulls away from his hands, smiling shyly and blushing.

Louis pulls him back and just kisses, doesn’t make a move to go further and just kisses him until he’s curved back over his couch with Louis kneeling in his lap to kiss him deeper.

 

* * *

 

Harry tells him he’s a virgin on their sixth date when Louis’ hands slip in the backs of his jeans and cup his arse.

He’s blushing and stuttering and Louis’ kisses him softly on his nose before he kisses him against the wall and then into the couch.

“Have you ever had a blowjob?” Louis asks, pushing himself on his forearms and looking down at Harry.

Harry nods and leans up to kiss him quick.

“Ever given one?” Harry nods once more.

“Once.”

“So by virgin you just mean actual sex?”

“Yes.”

“Can I give you a blowjob?”

Harry stutters and squeezes his eyes shut, leg falling from where they’re hitched up Louis’ back and falling open.

Louis takes that as a yes and crawls down his body.

Harry comes apart from long licks and his wrist flicking over what he can’t cover and lays panting and flushed red and _naked_ on his couch.

Louis pulls off his shirt and jeans just so he doesn’t feel left out of the nudity party. Harry doesn’t fit on his couch, feet dangling over the arm rest, and Louis pushes him over and settles down, pulling him back so his head lands on his chest.

“Should teach me that.”

Harry mumbles, eyes fixed to where Louis tugs himself with one hand while the other rubs patterns onto his back.

Louis finishes over his fist and Harry blushes when he wipes it over his stomach.

Harry is hot and sweaty and he breaths out against his chest, fingers dragging over his hip bones.

It’s dreadfully hot and half of him wants to push Harry off him and go get a glass of water and open the window wider to let in more cool air, but Harry’s breathing deeply and it almost sounds like he were snoring.

So he lies with Harry under his arm, rubbing his thumb into his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Harry’s flat is even smaller than his and there’s a man with an American accent and a moody jaw next to him who Louis suspects is fucking the young Italian boy on his other side.

His main window looks over a brick wall and an alley and his bed is a single and freezer leaks water onto the tile and makes Louis slip more than once.

The shower is small and they have to stand chest to chest or chest to back just to fit.

His apartment smells like cigarette smoke and his apple shampoo and his bed may be small but it’s hideously comfortable and Louis could gladly sleep his life away on the mattress with Harry in his arms.

Harry’s first blowjob is messy and Louis comes to soon, the sight of Harry almost choking around him with red lips stretched and green eyes wide and watering proving too much.

Harry coughs and swallows, refusing to spit even though his face turns sour.

Louis cradles him in his arms and plays with his hair until he sleeps.

Harry wakes him up just past seven, sitting on his thighs and asking to try again.

Louis lasts not a second longer but Harry manages to swallow with a smile on his face and blinks back any moisture that wanted to pool over from his eyelids.

Harry makes him breakfast and Louis sits on his windowsill, counting the bricks in the opposite wall and breathing in one of Harry’s cigarettes.

Harry’s pancakes taste better than his and he adds three times his normal amount of syrup and he feeds him blueberries before licking syrup from the corner of his mouth and then from the inside of his mouth.

Then Louis’ pushing them to the shower because Harry has an early lecture at the L’Université Française and Louis has work and Harry has work in the afternoon and Louis has work in the evening but Harry wants to come over after.

Harry makes him smell like apple and kisses his chest softly as his fingers massage his scalp.

 

* * *

 

Their first time together is just after they’ve been together for four months.

Harry’s nervous and shaking when Louis kisses him open, licking up and in until Harry’s melted into his sheets.

Harry’s panting as he spreads his thighs the smallest bit more, planting a last kiss to him before he’s covered his length in latex and lube and he kisses Harry right between his shoulder blades before he’s pushing in and Harry’s biting into a pillow.

Louis goes slow; trying to make sure he doesn’t hurt Harry.

Harry only reacts positively when Louis angles right and Harry spits out curses and _plus dur_ and _plus fort_  and _fuck_  but mostly _please_  and _Louis._

He’s never felt greater and he presses against hot skin, fingers pressing until skin dips around them.

He goes hard and fast until Harry is screaming his name, giving his noisy neighbours a run for their money.

Harry collapses after the bang, rolling onto his side and letting Louis wipe his fringe off his forehead.

“You okay?” Louis whispers into his hair.

“Perfect.”

 

* * *

 

It seems logical.

They’ve been dating seven months.

Every day, Louis rides past a block of flats. They’ve all been occupied ever since he moved to Sicily and he’s partially glad about that because if one had been open he would have been desperate to get it, even though he wouldn’t be able to afford it.

But then there’s a flat open. There’s a big _di appartamento_ sign by the front door, up the steps.

The first time he sees it, he shrugs it off.

But it just seems more logical each time he rides past it to go home.

He can imagine it, having a bigger room and a comfortable couch and a shower that’s big enough for two people and a working stove and just living with Harry.

Harry could take his Vespa to work or to uni and Louis could just walk.

And they could snuggle on the couch and take long showers and roll in clean sheets and he really wants it.

It’s about his normal rent with an added half and if Harry were to chip in, he’s sure they could cover it.

He brings it up in the shower at Harry’s flat because it just aids his argument. Harry has to lean back in his chest to lather his hair properly, arse pressing just above his crotch and foam slipping from his hair down his neck and down his shoulders and transferring to Louis’ chest.

“There’re these flats just by where I work.” He starts and Harry hums to show he’s listening. “One of them just opened up and I think we should try and rent it.”

Harry shuffles to turn and face him, hands flying to his chest.

“Really?” He asks, eyes wide.

Louis nods and sucks in his bottom lip before Harry is throwing his arms around his neck and planting hard kisses over his cheeks and neck and pushing him against the tile.

“Wow.” Harry breaths into his neck, still kissing his skin. Then he pulls back with his eyes squeezed shut. “Merde.” He curses, wiping at his eyes and blinking furiously as Louis tries to dab with a wet flannel.

“Silly boy.” Louis tuts, kissing his jaw. “I take that as a yes?”

Harry bites his lip and nods, eye still red.

 

* * *

 

They manage the down payment with a bit of struggle.

They have to wait a month before moving in, so Harry moves out his flat and into Louis’ to save money. He sells his bed and his couch but keeps his little black and white television and he has so many bits and bobs and books and albums but they stay in a stack of three boxes by Louis’ door, waiting to only be unpacked when they get to their new flat.

Louis intends to sell his bed and couch and television too, just so they can buy newer and better ones.

Harry helps him pack everything into seven separate boxes. They decide that when they move to their new place, they’ll sort through everything and pawn off what they don’t need.

He loves living with Harry. He loves waking up with his face in his neck and sharing warm showers and Harry bringing him yogurt and fruit juice in bed.

The Sunday before they’re set to move, they spend the entire day in bed. It isn’t cold but it isn’t too hot that lying under Louis’ duvet so close can make them overheat.

Harry only slips out near the evening, pulling on Louis’ sleeping shirt and buttoning it up to the neck. The hem is just shy of his arse and the sleeves fall over his hands and he prances out the bedroom and into the kitchen.

Louis reluctantly climbs out too, not bothering with clothing.

He goes to stand behind Harry by the fridge, arms circling his waist and pulling him back to his chest. He turns Harry and puts his hands on his waist, hoisting him up to the counter. Harry sits still, knees spread wide as he watches Louis.

Louis hums to himself, getting all the ingredients he needs to make Harry an omelette. Harry hums with him, making up a tune as they go.

Louis folds it and slips it onto a plate that has too many cracks for him to still be using and he hands it to Harry. Harry balances it on his thighs, cutting it into small squares and eating delicately. He feeds Louis little pieces.

Louis stands between his knees, swaying and chewing each time Harry raises the fork to his lips.

Louis takes the plate from him and places it in the sink before leaning up to kiss Harry.

“I love you.” Harry says softly, eyes shut and brow furrowed.

Louis lets his thumbs press into the insides of Harry’s thighs, just above his knees. He drags his fingers higher up his thighs, dragging where his skin is sensitive until he’s pressing into the very tops where Harry’s the most responsive and Harry shivers slightly as he presses down in small circles.

His fingers pull on the hem of his shirt, pulling it down a bit more to cover his crotch.

“I love you too.” He says softly.

Harry’s eyes open and his hands ghost over Louis’ hands, fingers slipping into each other’s gaps. He pulls his and Harry’s hands down his thighs, sliding in circles over his knees before back up.

“I love you.” Harry says softly, head dipped and watching their hands.

“I love you.” Louis says back, pressing into his skin so it bounces when he pulls back.

“Love you more.” Harry says, smile in his voice as he brings their hands up to press against Louis’ chest.

“Love you most.” Louis replies, dragging their hands over his stomach.

“Menteur.” Harry sighs, dragging Louis closer so he can wrap his thighs around his hips.

Louis kisses him softly, pulling back and dragging Harry with him. Harry whines when he separates their lips, arms hooking around his neck to keep him close.

“Come back to bed.” Louis mumbles into his ear, nails scraping over his thighs.

“Carry me.” Harry murmurs, falling to his chest and sighing into his neck.

Louis kisses his ear, hands moving to under his thighs and lifting him off the counter. He squeezes his soft skin and he pulls his thighs higher, wrapping them tighter.

He drops Harry to the mattress, towering over him and pressing his thighs open and his knees to the mattress.

Harry smiles with his tongue poking through his teeth as Louis quickly makes work of the buttons on his shirt, leaning to plant a kiss just over his naval.

Harry laughs softly in the back of his throat before sitting up.

“Can I try something?” He asks, voice soft.

Louis nods and Harry lets another smile split his face. He pushes on Louis’ shoulder so he’s lying on his back and Harry scoots up his thighs to sit above his crotch, inches above his growing need.

He still has the shirt on his shoulders, hanging open as his nails rake over Louis’ chest.

“You’re beautiful.” He says almost to himself. He runs a thumb over Louis’ cheek bone, running over his jaw and down the column of his throat and over his collar bone and around his peaked nipple and down the centre line of his stomach and around his belly-button before running over the thin trail of hair then wrapping around the root.

He squeezes tightly before letting go and letting his fingers sneak behind himself and letting his fingers slide in one by one. His other hand grabs at Louis’ chest, arm shaking as he gets ready.

Louis’ hands find Harry’s hips, holding him steady before sliding the first bit in. Harry rocks down and back and his eyes roll back before springing back open to stare down at Louis. His gaze is heavy, calculating everything about Louis.

Louis presses his thumbs into the dips of his hips, pushing him up to his time. Harry mewls softly, curses spilling before him. Louis pulls him down to lick into his lips as he keeps Harry sliding.

Harry goes with a cry of his name and a bite in his shoulder, milking him to finish with hot clenches.

Harry pants over his chest, rolling his nipple between his fingertips.

“Love you.” Harry kisses into his sweaty skin, licking up salty sweat with a flick of his tongue.

“Love you most.” Louis says, sweat pooling into his sheets.

 

* * *

 

The flat is marvellous and they sleep on the floor on Louis’ duvet until they can go out to buy another mattress.

Their only furniture is a table and two rickety chairs but they have pillows and blankets and more decorative items than they can fit anywhere.

They sit on the window sill, cigarette passed between their fingers. Louis hangs his one leg out, toes grazing the brick wall.

“It’s beautiful.” Harry breathes on an out-breath, puffing smoke into the night air.

Their view is just the other building across the street but it is better than his old view of a brick wall and Louis’ thumb rubs into his thigh.

Louis pulls him back inside with an arm around Harry’s waist and he pulls him to his chest and steps back to lie on the hard ground with Harry on top of him.

They get sweaty and wrecked and sated before they just lie tangled around each other.

Harry pulls the sheets over their heads and smiles in that broad way of his, so it’s all he can see in the dark.

“We have a bath now.” Harry whispers, breath hot.

“All we need is furniture.” Louis smiles back.

“Let’s take a bath tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“I’m tired.”

“Sleep.”

“Dormir.” Harry mumbles.

“Dormire.” Louis says back.

The floor is painfully uncomfortable and his back is sore, but Harry is breathing deep on his chest, clinging to his bare skin and puffing out hot air against his chest.

They really need a bed.

 

* * *

 

“Miss you.” Harry says down the receiver, crackling.

He’s visiting his mum in Colmar, already been there for three days.

Their new bed is cold without Harry to latch onto him and to warm him with suckling kisses to his neck. The bed smells like Harry and the flat smells like Harry and he still smells like Harry.

“Love you.” Louis says softly, feeling tired.

He can hear a knock from Harry’s side and Harry breathes out a _hold on_ and he can hear shuffling and hurried French from Harry and his mother and he closes his eyes, the sound of the landline similar to crumpled sweet papers and sounding ready to pop and shoot electricity through his ear.

He passes the phone to his other ear, having pulled it from the lounge to sit in the bedroom doorway, cable then stretching to the foot of the bed, Louis lying upside down just to keep it to his ear.

Harry breathes out when he’s back; Louis can just imagine him snuggling into his blankets and holding his own landline to his ear.

“Ma mère wants to meet you.” He says softly, smile in his voice. “She’s complaining about me calling you.”

“Tell her I’ll pay her back.” He whispers to match Harry’s soft voice, legs kicking at the blanket.

“Already promised that I would.” Harry yawns, humming down the line.

Its quiet then, phone ticking softly with each second they don’t talk. He can hear something that could be Harry’s breathing or just the static. He rolls onto his stomach, hooking his chin over the edge of the bed.

“What are you wearing?” Louis drawls out, grinning stupidly when he hears Harry giggle.

“Pervert.” Harry laughs, voice staying low before he whispers, "I'm naked."

“Mm, wanna fuck you.” Louis says sleepily, basking in Harry’s breathy whimper.

“We should sleep.” Harry says so soft.

Then it’s silent again, just them both breathing to each other. Louis lets the receiver lie next to him, right where his feet would normally sit.

“Harry?”

Harry hums.

“We should get married.”

Harry chuckles. “We aren’t allowed.”

“We’ll pretend.”

“For how long?”

“Until I can kiss you in a church.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more. Sleep tight.”


End file.
